


Brutal Love

by gimmefire



Series: Your Tenth Shot of Tequila [3]
Category: MotoGP RPF, Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-27 14:06:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2695802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmefire/pseuds/gimmefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During bad times you're supposed to remember the good times. It wasn't always like this, it'll get better. It might get better. Hope it will get better. Unfortunately for Matt, the good times feel all too dim and distant right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The final part (probably) of the _Tequila_ trilogy. Title and song lyrics within taken from Green Day's "[Brutal Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84VP50arSL8)".

_Turn out the lights_  
 _Close your eyes_  
 _Turn up the silence_  
 _The heartache of your life_  
 _Dance forever_  
 _Under the lights_  
 _This brutal love_

During bad times you're supposed to remember the good times. It wasn't always like this, it'll get better. It might get better. Hope it will get better. Unfortunately for Matt, the good times feel all too dim and distant right now.

For various reasons, he's unwilling to return to his room, so he sits alone in the hotel bar, nursing a pint, a battered ego and an arm that aches right down to the bone. He glances at his elbow, grimacing as the movement sends little bolts of pain along the limb, and pulls his shirt fabric away from his skin, pristine white torn and flecked with dots of blood. The season is over, it's the last get-together of the year, and he should be out celebrating, getting leathered, _something_. He glances at his elbow again. He's pretty sure the wounds are superficial.

Remember the good times, he tells himself, and sighs.

 

_2010._

Matt is at Silverstone and trying not to be mildly irritated at the prospect of wearing a hard hat. He's there to do a piece around the building site that is the reconfigured track, probably involving lots of shots of him walking around and pointing at things while his interview plays over the top. He's also there to speak to a rider who'll make the jump from Superbikes to MotoGP next year, a rider he's yet to meet one-to-one. That rider is Cal Crutchlow.

Cal has a couple of other interviews going on today, and Matt takes the opportunity to observe the person he's hopefully - for the sake of British motorbike fans - going to be talking about a lot over the next few years. If one were to base judgement purely on appearance, Cal looks like he might be quite at home on a building site; with his close cropped hair and dusting of stubble. But then you notice his strange, _quilted_ Monster jacket and you start to reconsider.

Matt's thinking in cliches, anyway. If Cal saw his usual wardrobe, hidden today under his worn Alpinestars leather jacket, he might think he'd be quite at home working in River Island.

Once they've had their little wander around, it's time for the interview, which is when Matt is struck by something else - Cal has that little bit of madness that all bike riders carry, but you don't usually see that madness so vividly in a rider's eyes. There's something about him that's slightly past impish; when he was younger, he was probably the boy your mum told you to stay away from. He doesn't just smile, he grins, lots of teeth going on show, and something else Matt notices is that Cal looks him up and down for good measure. More than once. Checking him out, maybe.

Weirdo.

 

_2012._

"Because it isn't," Matt mutters very, very quietly to himself as he pinches the stem of his wine glass between his thumb and forefinger. It isn't, he's right. He thinks. Sort of.

The thing he's there for, in a small Indian restaurant quite a few miles from the usual grand prix weekend hangouts, where no team members and no media might walk in, is a meal. A friendly chat over a curry between mates. No talking shop. Just normal stuff. What it isn't, is a date.

It isn't a date, but that hasn't stopped Matt from imagining what it'd be like if it was, especially as he sits here waiting for Cal to show up. Cal would dress up a little bit, he'd like to think; nothing like his Steve Davis black-waistcoat-black-shirt combo, but you know...nice. Maybe a dress shirt and tidy jeans. Tidy _-ish_ jeans.

Cal would laugh at his shit jokes, make shit jokes of his own and shoot him wicked looks over his glass of soft drink that would make him stutter. Maybe he'd have a bit of curry sauce at the corner of his mouth that Matt would think about kissing clean and lose his train of thought. And Cal seems like the type of person to meet you in the bathroom and bolt the door behind him.

When Cal (eventually) turns up, Matt's been thinking about all the ways it could go if it was a date for so long that the man's appearance alone is enough to make Matt's heart race. Then he shoulders off his jacket to reveal a dress shirt underneath…

 

_2013._

Matt's checking his phone one night in the quiet end of the paddock - where the riders' motorhomes are - brow creased into a slight frown as he stands there absorbed, when fingers scamper down his backside suddenly enough to make him flinch. He doesn't even need to look around to know the culprit.

"You do my heart no good, you," he mutters with a wry smile, patting his chest dramatically.

"You like it," Cal responds smugly when he moves into Matt's field of vision. He lifts his chin in the direction of his motorhome and raises his eyebrows suggestively. It never fails to stir a keen warmth in the pit of Matt's stomach, but sadly this is one of those rare times that he has to turn Cal down.

"I've got somewhere to be in a minute," he says smoothly, doing a fine job of keeping the anguished apology out of his voice.

"It'll only be quick."

There's a dirty joke in there somewhere, but Matt lets it be. "Oh yeah?"

"Got something to show you." Another dirty joke, but Cal seems to realise it this time and clarifies a little. "A present."

Matt is immediately both suspicious and intrigued; he manages to convey both. "...Is it a nice present?"

"Fucking come and see, will you!" Cal exclaims with endearing impatience, and Matt doesn't have the heart to refuse.

 

Matt climbs up into Cal's motorhome, hoping he isn't about to get pied in the face and thinking about how their conversation could have been taken from a bad porn film. _Oh, I've got a present for you…is it a big present?...huge, baby..._ Cal disappears into the back where the bedroom is and returns holding a [bright green cuddly toy](http://www.uglydolls.com/p/classic-hot-foot?pp=12) in both hands. Matt vaguely recognises it; then he realises it looks similar to the little collection of toys Cal already has lined up on the back of the sofa.

"Almost matches my chinos," he comments dryly, not failing to notice the brush of their fingers as Cal offers him the toy.

"Look at the label," Cal instructs, still impatient, still endearing. He sidles up beside Matt so that he can read the little cardboard tag aloud, clearly not satisfied with the prospect of Matt reading it silently. Again, Matt doesn't fail to notice Cal's hand cupping his as he angles the open tag towards himself. "You know the one thing Hot Foot really doesn’t like so much? The sheep herd mentality! What’s with all the posers and followers? Go buy some tan pants with the funky plaid pockets, then POW, nobody else gets them!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Matt sees Cal's smile widen.

"Made me think of you," the younger man murmurs, nudging him slightly too hard in the ribs. "So he's yours."

Matt's eyebrows lift in pleasant surprise as he looks over his gift. "Aww," he says softly, almost to himself. Cal is close beside him, hand still cupping his, and there's a dim urge in him to press closer. Maybe Cal will pull his other hand from his pocket and slide it around his waist, and maybe he'll--

"Do I get a kiss, then?" Cal demands.

"Fucking hell, you don't normally ask!" Matt snorts in wry amusement, yanked out of his little fantasy. After a pause in which he regards Cal contemplatively, he murmurs, "You just take."

Cal stares boldly back at him. "Why don't _you_ take?"

Matt takes a breath and holds it, thrilled by the open, inviting look on Cal's face. Then he chuckles nervously, shattering the moment all by himself. "It's not really 'just taking' if you're telling me to do it, is it?"

Cal's shoulders drop a little, the crackling aura of anticipation fading, and he rolls his eyes, albeit with that near perpetual smirk. "Y'welcome," he says, and moves away.

Something seizes Matt once he's bereft of Cal's physical proximity, and he reaches out before Cal can go too far, pulling him back into his chest.

"Ooh," is Cal's amused reaction.

 _I never said I wouldn't, did I_ is what Matt wants to say, wants to purr seductively in the back of his throat, but the words won't come. He's lost his focus in scent, in body heat and pressure, and he just wants to take a few seconds - minutes, hours, days - to stay lost; to feel the exquisite, burning ache that Cal stirs in his chest just by existing.

Or when he gives him a ridiculously cute gift for no reason at all.

Matt turns him in his arms and kisses him, too gently and too tenderly for what they are, for what they aren't; the ache in his chest intensifies as he tries not to think about it, tries not to notice the way his fingers slide down Cal's arm to take his hand, or the way he can't quite get his breath when he breaks away. His nose bumps Cal's as he remains unable to pull away.

He clears his throat. "I-I s'pose that's not really what you mea--"

Cal cuts him off with an extraordinarily tender kiss of his own, hand cupping the back of his neck, and that ache in him bursts like a flame given oxygen. He doesn't know what will happen when Cal stops kissing him - to them, to anything, because Cal's never kissed him like this before; no bite, no tongue, no dark streak of domination. He doesn't want to know. He doesn't want Cal to stop.

But he does, quite suddenly. Matt can't find the words, can barely remember to breathe, so Cal clears his throat and speaks for him. His voice is low and hushed.

"You've got somewhere to be."

Matt leaves Cal's motorhome utterly dazed. He looks at the cuddly toy in his hands and tries vainly to gather his thoughts. It is beginning to dawn on him not just how far he is falling for Cal Crutchlow, but how it sometimes feels like he's going to land face first on solid concrete.

 

Not too long after this, Jorge happens. To both of them, eventually. And it's never the same again.

Cal is outraged by Matt's taste-of-your-own-medicine moment of madness, and more hurt by it than Matt had ever imagined he'd be. Matt had idly run through something along the lines of what happened, when he was alone and sleepless and feeling the acidic burn of jealousy deep in his gut. Just allowing it to play out in his head as he glared at the ceiling and let his imagination fill in Cal's possible reactions. What if I slept with someone else, he thought. What if Cal found out, he thought. Cal would be angry and hurt, maybe even jealous and possessive, but he'd see his own faults reflected in front of him. He'd see the damage and pain he'd been causing. He thought.

Hell, maybe that is what happened. Maybe Cal saw the error of his ways. Matt had no idea, because Cal never spoke to him off-camera. For months. On camera it was just the same, except it wasn't; it was _for_ the camera. Not for him. Not for them.

 

_Danger_  
 _Not quite at home_  
 _The eyes of temptation_  
 _The flesh and my bones_  
 _Hello stranger_  
 _I'm a disaster_  
 _This brutal love_

 

House party. That's where Matt is right now. He couldn't tell you exactly where, though. Or whose house it was. They're somewhere near Misano, so maybe it's Alex de Angelis'. Or a friend of his. Or a friend of a friend.

He has wine in him, enough to make him dance without self-consciousness but not enough to make him think he can DJ better than the guy behind the decks. (Not that they are decks anymore these days. It's just an iTunes playlist. He's trying not to feel old.) A few riders mill around the place, but he's sure he hasn't picked out all of them. It's a sizeable house, but there must be over a hundred and fifty people here, squeezed into rooms heavy with late summer heat, spilling out onto the _terrazza_ , chatter and music filling the air.

Matt is leaning against the wall of the upstairs landing, at the back of the queue for the bathroom - because he's not quite a bad enough party guest to just piss in the garden like a few others he's seen - when someone joins it beside him. Strangely, he feels the hair prickle on the back of his neck before a familiar voice reaches his ears.

"I like your shoes."

"Thanks," Matt responds a little warily, looking down at his honey leather boots instead of around at the other person. "Unless you're taking the piss, in which case it's no thanks. You still wear Crocs, though, right?"

"Nothing wrong with Crocs," Cal says.

Matt scoffs. "You can't rip on my style if you wear Crocs, mate."

"Yes I can," Cal insists, moving to face Matt fully and making sure Matt has little choice but to look at him. "I'm not ripping on your style anyway. Why won't you take a compliment, Matt? I like your shoes."

Matt gives him a look. "Thanks."

A broad grin breaks across Cal's face. "You can't do that much work on the building site, cos they're really clean."

"There we go..." Matt says, raising his eyes to the ceiling in mock despair, which Cal finds very amusing indeed. Quietly pleased by Cal's laughter, Matt continues. "You gonna tell me to wear a plaid shirt next time so I can make a living as a lesbian cliche?"

"Please, Matt!" Cal exclaims with a cackle. "I don't need any help. You're an inspiration just standing there."

This is their first off-camera conversation in months, but it almost feels like nothing had changed. Their natural back-and-forth banter blossoms anew.

Cal eyes him, apparently reading his mind. "I've missed this."

Matt sighs without really meaning to. "Yeah. This is good."

But then he sees it. Cal looks at him in a certain way, and Matt finally sees it. It's been there the whole time, and it's almost as though he's been trying _not_ to see it; ignoring it so it might not truly exist. The barely veiled predator in Cal's smile.

Then Cal leans in.

Matt flinches away.

"Don't." His heart races in a way that it hasn't done for months. There's a catch in his voice that he hates himself for.

Cal recoils, physically shrinking back like he's been slapped. And in a way, Matt will suppose later, he has. He looks wounded, then sullen; emotions pass over his face, vivid and acute. Then that look appears, that same look he had outside his motorhome months ago.

"Should I go and ask Jorge why?" he sneers.

Despite everything, despite the work Matt has done putting things behind him, compelling feelings to fade, it strikes him in the chest like a punch. He shakes his head, eyes baleful and filled with a hurt he thought he'd gotten away from. He's forced to push it all away - again - and what is left behind is absolutely venomous.

"You're gonna lord that over me forever, aren't you? Such a fucking hypocrite."

A scowl solidifies on Cal's brow. "So because I like to have fun, I'm not fucking allowed to have feelings?"

It's not as simple as that but Matt's not in the mood to explain, so he shrugs, embers of bitter anger burning away in his gut. "I think that seems fair."

Fury ignites in Cal's eyes with such sudden intensity that Matt recoils until his back thuds against the wall when Cal surges towards him. "I never fucking promised you _fucking anything!_ "

Silence blows a black hole in the air between them after Cal's outburst, hollow and stunned. Matt feels his heart hammering in his chest. Cal's face has flushed with colour, whether through anger or embarrassment, Matt doesn't know. There are other pairs of eyes on them now, Matt can feel it, other people in the queue doubtless pretending not to stare at the apparent domestic going on between them. They stare at one another until they can bear it no longer; Cal turns sharply and heads off down the stairs, almost breaking into a run by the time he's near the bottom. Matt tears his eyes away from the disappearing figure and focusses on the carpet between his feet, clenching his jaw until it aches. He wishes his heart would slow down.

 

It's an hour later and Matt is the other side of two large glasses of wine before he's stopped turning Cal's words over in his mind and stopped brooding about being fucking shouted at. And his antagonist has kept such a low profile since then that he's almost forgotten that Cal's even there. He's on his way to the bathroom again when he is reminded.

Someone grabs him by the shoulder as he reaches out to check the handle of the bathroom door, pushing him further down the landing, away from prying eyes. Surprise gives way to sullen annoyance when he looks over his shoulder to see his assailant, and he snatches his shoulder out of Cal's grasp. "What were you doing, waiting for me like a bathroom stalker?"

"I'm trying to apologise," Cal answers immediately, no trace of that earlier fury on him. His shoulders sink a little as he sighs. "Before, the Jorge thing, I shouldn't have said it. Sorry."

Matt scoffs. "Christ, is this you maturing?"

Hints of resentment from creep back into Cal's expression. "Wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

Matt sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and bites down on it, physically restraining himself from asking if Cal happened to be sorry for anything else. It wouldn't help. He's tired of it all, sick of being angry about things. Instead, he looks away.

"I know that," Matt says quietly. The tension outlining him fades a little.

"I've missed you, y'know." The way Cal says it makes it sound like an insult, a barb thrown in the midst of a row. It's sharp and indignant, and still it makes Matt's heart skip a beat.

"Course you have," he mutters, annoyed at the way instinct guides his reaction. "Who else would put up with the abuse?"

Cal cracks a smile, a flash of teeth that does more unhelpful things to Matt's insides.

He's saved, however briefly, by another man ascending the stairs to check the bathroom door. Matt fiddles with his hair in the hall mirror beside him, exchanging an awkward nod of greeting with the man when he finds the door locked and turns to head back downstairs.

Cal's gone. Matt looks around himself in comical confusion when he finds himself suddenly alone on the landing, and he has a moment to exhale in what might be a sigh of relief before one of the doors at the end of the landing cracks open and Cal pops his head out, gesturing Matt over. The room Cal had apparently hidden in is one Matt had briefly visited when he arrived, dropping off his coat. It's the main bedroom. Matt's heart races.

"I don't think that's a good idea," he murmurs, a flinty edge to his voice.

"D'you wanna be interrupted again?" Cal responds curtly, glancing at the top of the stairs. "I wanna talk. I think we _should_ talk."

Matt's jaw tightens at that perfunctory correction, and he looks back down the landing to the stairs as well, his gaze lingering. He should just go, walk away without another word. Go back to the party. Fuck what Cal wants.

"What're you scowling for?"

Matt's gaze rounds back to Cal. So now he's involuntarily scowling, is he? He rubs his forehead, smoothing out tight muscles, sighing again as he moves closer to the other man. "Look, Cal, I really don't think--"

He cuts himself off when he hears the thud of feet on the stairs, multiple voices ascending, and feels his stomach swoop.

"Get in!"

He pushes Cal back into the bedroom and crams himself inside, shutting the door behind him as soon as possible with a little too much vigour. The voices outside grow louder, and to Matt's alarm, the door handle starts to turn. He pins his shoulder against it, one hand splayed against the wood, Cal lurching forward to help keep it shut while he fumbles to find the lock. He only unclenches when he twists the key, the lock makes a satisfying _clack_ sound and the handle stops moving.

Cal takes his hand away from his mouth - which he covered to stop himself laughing out loud - and mouths _what was that?_ , eyes sparkling with amusement, even in the near darkness within the bedroom. Heart thumping against his ribs, Matt bites his lip to fight the small, embarrassed smile that threatens to appear on his face.

"Don't know, panicked," he replies in a whisper. He averts his eyes in an effort to stave off the heat he can feel rising in his face. Cal is close to him, too close, his hand sliding down the door and brushing Matt's arm.

"So," Matt murmurs. He can't remember where the lightswitch is, and he folds his arms tightly across his chest. He might be safer in darkness anyway. "Talking."

"Yeah," Cal says, but doesn't continue. He bumps his shoulder against the wall, hands stuffed in his pockets, and looks at the floor. As Matt's eyes continue to adjust to the low light filtering through the window, something in his subconscious brings his attention to the curve of Cal's eyelashes. "Not normally a problem for me."

"What d'you mean?"

Cal allows his gaze to draw all the way up Matt's body before he speaks again. "In here, like this. This close. It's difficult."

Matt's arms loosen then uncross, and he feels the side of his hand brush the door lock. He thinks about unlocking it and just walking away. Walking away from Cal and proving to himself that he can finally start to shake off the power held over him.

He could. Easily.

He thinks about it. But only for a second.

In the time it has taken him to think about it, Cal has moved fractionally closer. "What did you want to talk about?" Matt presses softly. Valiantly.

Cal shakes his head and blinks slowly like he can't remember. His gaze flicks down to Matt's mouth and back up again. "I just wanna touch you."

Matt feels his scalp prickle. He moves backwards, but only by a foot; the small of his back bumps against something heavy, solid. A chest of drawers? His arm brushes the lock again. _You can go. Just go. If you want to._

Someone else's wants are taking up all his focus now, scattering his thoughts, prising open the cracks in his resolve. Cal's hypnotic eyes bore into him. The younger man fidgets like there are ants under his skin. Like he's just barely holding himself back.

"Matt, it's been fucking ages, and I just wanna touch you and smell that fucking aftershave you like, touch you and kiss you..."

There's a thread of near desperation in Cal's hushed voice, a hint of pleading he's not sure he's ever heard before, and it's making his breath quicken. Cal is even closer now, electrifying presence alone pinning him back against the furniture. His hand is no longer straying to the lock, torturing him with an escape route he won't use. Instead it reaches forward, fingers curling into Cal's sleeve, and he doesn't know if he means it as an invitation or if he does it knowing Cal will take it as one anyway. Cal is against him, breath on his neck, stubble grazing his jaw, and by the time the kiss is happening he feels like he's being swallowed by quicksand. Cal tastes just the same - no, better, better for the absence, and Matt wants to stretch him out and find out if he tastes better in all the other places. He grips the edge of the chest of drawers, clinging onto something solid while Cal's arm loops around his waist and pulls him in tight. He groans into Cal's mouth and it all rushes up into him, desire and need and love and fear, _I love you, I fucking love you,_ like his heart just sprung a violent leak. _I fucking love you Cal Crutchlow and I don't think I can stop myself._

He pushes Cal back just enough to be able to breathe, and he must look terrified because Cal asks him if he's alright. And, quite clearly, he isn't.

"I'm not--" _I'm not tying myself in knots again over you_ , is what he wants to say, but his throat won't work and his words won't form and _for fuck's sake_ \--

He feels for the lock again and can't find it, his fumbles growing ever more frantic as he stares helplessly at an increasingly concerned Cal, and for a fraction of a moment he thinks this might be some sick cosmic joke, or a dream - there's no lock, there's no door, no escape, and then he'll wake up at home in his bed in a cold sweat. Then his knuckles graze the key and he seizes it. He feels the door shiver with the force he puts into unlocking it.

"I can't keep doing this, Cal."

He forces the words out of himself, strained and hushed, squirming his way around the door as he pulls it open to make his escape, backing out of the room and almost tripping over his own feet in his haste, still caught up in Cal's gaze.

A little later, Matt has hidden himself away in a corner of the most crowded room, wine glass clutched to his chest, staring blankly at a spot on the carpet. The beat of the song playing is distantly familiar to him as it vibrates through the wall at his back, but he can't seem to focus on it to figure out what it is.

He has fucked up. He _is_ fucked up. And all he can think about is the desolate look on Cal's face as he fled.


	2. Chapter 2

_Bad luck_   
_Bitters and soda_   
_Anguish and shame_   
_The modern fool_

 

The end of the season is upon them. Valencia has come and gone. The FIM Gala is approaching, but that's about tuxedos, champagne and, for Matt at least, autocue. No, tonight is the last proper get together of the year for the British contingent, a semi-casual gathering of press and media and a few special guest riders in a concert hall in Blackpool. Who needs Monaco, eh?

The fact that it's the last one weighs on Matt more than in previous years. _Last._ That word keeps coming back to him, keeps tapping him on the shoulder. _Last._ He's doing a damn fine job of ignoring it so far, because he's with his mates, having a gossip and swapping stories that had yet to be shared over the course of the year. There's a modest stage at one end of the room with a mic in the centre, a few daft awards being given out over the course of the evening. The trophies look like they were bought from a car boot sale.

Inevitably perhaps, Cal is here. He was invited, so it isn't as though it's a total surprise, but given the success of the man this year, he'd have been forgiven for having a few too many prior commitments to bother turning up for a silly little do like this. But turn up he has, and Matt has yet to figure out if he's glad about that or not.

Seeing as he _has_ turned up, it would be rude not to give him an award, even if the hosts do seem to be making it up as they go along. Not, in fact, for biggest mouth, but for colourful character. The word _last_ taps Matt on the shoulder again as he watches Cal ascend the steps to the stage. Cal, in his baggy jeans and half-heartedly ironed dress shirt. Cal looking a little bit...tired, is it? Second hand? His eyes are bit heavy lidded, his stance is a bit relaxed.

Cal peers at his award, lazy smirk on his face, and speaks into the mic as he addresses the host stood off to the side. "Colourful character, eh? Does this mean you all think I'm a dickhead?"

More than a few journalists laugh a bit too loudly at that. Matt might have passed off Cal's state as the result of a few too many flights of late, until he notices that he has a mostly empty pint dangling from his free hand. Must be a blue moon tonight...

"...I'd also like to say thank you to the BBC for all they've done, not just for me, but for all the British riders in MotoGP," Cal is saying in his acceptance speech. "What BTSport want to do is really exciting to me and I think it's going to be great, so I hope they are fucking clever enough to take on a lot of the talent from the old team."

Matt smiles and looks down into his drink as the audience applauds, feeling his stomach clench.

"Not that Matt Roberts, though…" Cal continues in a drawl, much to the amusement of the attendees, particularly the corner of the room around Matt. Here we go, says the ripple of laughter across the room, some classic Cal jibes coming... "They don't fucking need him. Or maybe they do, I dunno. Maybe it's useful to have someone who will sleep with the riders."

After a beat, the audience laughs and whistles. Matt feels like the floor just fell away under his feet.

"I know Azi's better than that. Azi's class. But Matt likes to go the extra mile for his work." Cal makes an obscene gesture, a grim smirk on his face. Matt forces a smile, feeling Gav's eyes on him, feeling _everyone's_ eyes on him, whilst trying to quell the sudden swell of nausea in his gut. _This isn't happening. This is a dream. This is a fucking nightmare._ Cal makes a few other suggestive comments, to the point where the laughter in the audience ebbs a little more each time, but Matt doesn't really hear them. The next thing he does hear is Gav's voice beside him.

"What the hell was that all about?" he asks, eyebrows raised, chuckling bemusedly. "Did you say something to piss him off?"

"Uh." That's about all Matt can manage at first, stupefied by Cal's behaviour, dread closing up his throat. "Cal…" he stares across the room at the stage, empty now, then turns his gaze to whereabouts Cal might have disappeared into the crowd. A crowd now filling the air with nervous laughter and hushed gossiping. He can't think what to say. He can't remember how to speak. It's like a tornado just ripped through his head. He tears his attention away from a rider he can't see to focus on Gav, cripplingly aware of the number of eyes on him. "Cal is...repeating rumours he heard from someone in the industry who doesn't like me too much."

"Who?," someone else interjects with a frown. "Could start a few about them, see how that goes down."

"No, honestly mate, I'd rather this be the end of it."

Gav is eying him carefully. Matt wishes he wasn't. "Cal knows better than that though, surely?"

"Could just be his sense of humour. He's a funny one."

 _Yeah, really fucking funny,_ Matt thinks acidly. The shock and humiliation has begun to dull, taking a backseat to an anger so acute it's making his hands tremble. He's looking across the room again for the rider, trying his best not to look as enraged as he feels. "It's alright, I'll go have a word, set him straight."

He eventually spots Cal disappearing through the double doors leading out into the vast hallway, and decides to follow him through at a distance. Cal rounds the nearest corner, putting himself out of sight from other people passing by, and rests against the opposite wall. He leans unsteadily over to set his now empty glass on the garishly carpeted floor, pinching the bridge of his nose when he rights himself as though affected by a headache.

Matt finds himself remarkably bereft of sympathy. "Brilliant." he spits, striding over. Cal glances up, but only for a moment. "Do you feel better now? Always good for a soundbyte, that Cal Crutchlow, eh? D'you know, I've just had to--" Matt interrupts himself, moving to put himself squarely in Cal's averted eyeline - "At least fucking respect me enough to fucking look at me when I'm talking - Gav is one of my oldest mates in this business. I've just had to full-on lie to him because of you. To cover your arse, and mine. And this is without even addressing the fact that it seems like, it really does seem to me like, you just tried to ruin my fucking career."

Cal swallows, looking down at some indeterminate spot on Matt's chest. He's starting to look a bit queasy.

"Oh, do you not feel well, mate?" Matt asks, voice dripping with derision. The anger isn't fading. It vibrates in him, right in his core, like a rung bell. " _Good._ I'm sick of it. I'm sick of you."

Cal looks up sharply, a sudden clarity in his eyes telegraphing his dismay, but Matt's attention is snatched away by a familiar voice behind him.

"You alright?" Gav has appeared from around the corner, still looking concerned. His approach slows and he quails a little when Matt turns to face him. "Blimey, sorry. I'll leave you be."

After taking a moment to breathe, Matt forces himself to laugh, but it's devoid of humour and achingly tired. "It's alright, mate," he says, sounding not in the least bit alright. He pulls a thumb over his shoulder. "Look, Cal doesn't feel well, so I'm gonna make sure he gets in okay."

Gav doesn't look wholly convinced, glancing over Matt's shoulder at Cal. "Yeah, maybe he should get his head down…"

Matt doesn't look back. His face might be growing tighter with the sheer effort of trying to look unruffled. Gav doesn't appear to buy it, but also doesn't press the issue, and for that, Matt is grateful. Gav pats him on the shoulder. "Don't let it get to you, mate," he murmurs out of Cal's earshot.

Matt smiles, but it's taut and the crinkles feel like in the wrong places, and he imagines that if he looked at Gav for much longer he'd careen straight past furious and into stricken, and he's not ready for it.

"Bit late for that," he says, roughness just beginning to creep into his voice. He turns on his heel to find Cal still there, still sagged against the wall like a bag of wet sand, eyes downcast again. "Come on," he says quite sharply. "Let's get you back to sleep it off."

Cal doesn't look like he's even considering putting up a fight about it, and he pushes himself away from the wall with both hands, making it seem like a Herculean effort in doing so. Matt shakes his head to himself and walks away, not looking back to see if Cal is following, or if Gav is watching him go.

 

_Bad sex_   
_Buy me a train wreck_   
_Something for my troubled mind_

 

They're about five minutes along the windy seafront when Matt begins to severely regret storming out of the building without his coat. He imagines it hung up in the venue's cloakroom, not warming a soul, and wraps his arms more tightly around himself. It does little to improve his mood.

At least Cal did, in fact, follow him out. And he didn't think to pick up his coat either. So they're both walking along Blackpool seafront, on a damp and windy winter's night, looking as though they're trying to shrink into themselves. On any other day Matt would laugh.

Cal's pace begins to slow when they're only a few more minutes away from their shared hotel, when you'd think the chill in the air would hasten his progress. Matt walks a couple of steps behind him, slowly growing more frustrated by the delay, and he's about to hurry Cal along - physically if necessary - when Cal suddenly veers off towards the road, bending double and making an awful heaving noise. He moves with such drunken gusto that his balance fails him and he overshoots the edge of the kerb, stumbling into the road.

"Cal, for Christ's sake--!" Matt exclaims in alarm, grabbing for Cal's arm but missing. Cal's momentum is still carrying him forward, and headlights flood the road as Matt lurches after him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. It works - he yanks at the fabric hard enough to stop him dead, but then it's his own forward momentum that's the problem, and by then it's too late because the headlights are right on him.

It's a glancing blow - from a bloody Vespa, of all things - but it's enough to knock him off his feet and send him tumbling down the road like a melodramatic footballer. Jarring pain shoots through his arm before he comes to an eventual halt on his backside on wet tarmac. " _Fucking hell!_ " he shouts through gritted teeth, slamming his fist against the road surface beneath him in a manifestation of the pain, anger and sheer exasperation at his entire fucking ridiculous situation. He's had enough. _Enough_.

The scooter rider pulls over briefly to berate them both for mucking about in the road, gesturing to the empty air where one of his mirrors used to be. Cal, on his hands and knees where he had apparently crumpled some way back down the road, stares at him in shock, gaze turning to the Vespa's tail lights as it buzzes angrily away. He clambers unsteadily to his feet - careful not to step in the fresh puddle of his stomach contents - and grasps the broken mirror, hurling it down the road after the rider with such vigour that he almost falls over again, shouting and swearing in anger that flares up as quickly as it dissipates. The mirror makes a metallic clattering noise as it bounces harmlessly across the tarmac.

Having hauled himself to a slightly safer spot by the kerb, Matt sees the wide black smear of dirt and grit cutting across the whiteness of his shirtsleeve. As he pulls the fabric away from his skin he sees the holes torn, the blood; he flexes his fingers, numbness beginning to give way to stinging pain. Cal comes over, concern clear through the drunken haze. "Are you alright?"

Matt is inspecting the rest of his limbs for damage, frown etched onto his face when he looks up sharply. " _I dunno, does it look like it?_ "

Cal swallows and licks his lips, offering a hand which Matt roundly ignores, pushing himself to his feet and grimacing as the rest of his body starts to catch up with what just happened. He wipes his muddy, sore hands on his already filthy jeans.

"I didn't wanna just puke on…" Cal gestures vaguely back in the direction they came from. "On the pavement. It's disgusting. You know...when you're on a night out and you see..." he gestures again, then puts his hand on his stomach like he might be about to demonstrate. Matt glares at him in silence. Then he stalks past him, limping slightly at first, continuing towards the hotel. Cal eventually follows.

 

Matt is still seething as the lift coasts quietly up to Cal's floor, various spots on his body gently but persistently throbbing with pain. He's not sure if it's the anger or the humiliation of this entire night that makes his face feel like it's burning; in truth he's not really sure of much at that moment in time, because he's so angry he can't quite think straight. He glares at the sealed lift doors and feels Cal's presence behind him, glancing back precisely once during the journey to find Cal slumped against the back wall, eyes on the floor, not appearing to have the nerve to look him in the eye.

Once they're out of the lift, Matt breaks the silence. "Which room?"

Cal swallows and sways on the spot like there's a faint breeze blowing down the corridor. "255."

Matt strides off in the right direction without bothering to see if Cal is following, stopping outside 255 and waiting for the other man to catch up.

"Where's your card key?" he asks tersely when Cal arrives. After a long moment, Cal puts his hands over his front pockets. He looks pale.

"I don't know," he murmurs.

If Matt was the type to do so, he might just punch a hole through Cal's hotel room door and let them in that way. He grits his teeth and steps close to the other man, digging his hands into his pockets. Nothing in the front, so he pushes Cal's arms away from his sides to check the back ones.

"Can I stay in yours?" Cal mumbles, booze numbed mouth almost brushing Matt's ear. Matt freezes, then recoils sharply, astounded at the temerity. Inwardly he rails at the other man, _how dare you, how fucking dare you prey on my sympathy like this after tonight--_

Cal reaches out towards him, fingers clumsily grasping the sleeve of his ruined shirt. His eyes are clouded. "I'm...I'm a prick."

And just like that, that thick, solid weight of all Matt's fury and resolve sitting heavy in his chest splits in two and falls away like it was never there. Cal stands before him wilted, subdued, and maybe it's just the alcohol, an early onset hangover stripping away all the bravado, but…

Cal clings onto his sleeve like he wouldn't let Matt go even if he said no. They'd both just stand in that corridor, Cal looking at him with those piteous eyes. Matt hears his heart thudding away in his ears and thinks about how he could push Cal back against the wall, pull himself free. He could push Cal against the wall, pin him there, he could--

_He's drunk. He's drunk, he's drunk, he's drunk and you're an arsehole for thinking about it._

Matt hears him mumble again, so quiet and so disconsolate he may well be talking to himself.

"I'm a prick."

 

Pulling his card key from the slot at the flash of the green light, Matt opens the door to his room, waving Cal inside. He begins to unbutton his shirt while the rider slumps heavily onto the bed, attention focussed on clumsily toeing off his shoes.

"I'm gonna go back to the do, see if Gav managed to calm the waters," Matt murmurs, not actually having any intention of doing as he says. He hasn't the energy or the will to do so, but he can't stay here. Not now. Not yet. Cal's only response is a small nod, gaze ever averted. "If you're gonna throw up again, try and get to the bathroom." Another nod.

Matt watches him settle gingerly on his side without bothering to crawl under the covers, his back turned, curling into a ball. He flicks the light off and watches until his eyes adjust to the darkness, slivers of light outside slicing between the curtains and draping across the rumpled covers. Then he watches for a while longer.

_I'm so glad I'm going to get away from you._

Matt washes his hands in the bathroom sink, revealing smudges of red raw, angry looking flesh, tiny little cuts from the rough tarmac, pinpricks of blood and slivers of loose skin. Then he's carefully peeling the shirt off his body and rinsing the dirt from the shredded skin of his elbow, cursing repeatedly under his breath when pain blossoms anew. Blood flows, pale and pinkish swirling down the plughole, flecked with black specks of grit. He doesn't want to ruin another shirt by bleeding on it, so once he's adequately clean, he wraps some toilet roll around his injured arm and just puts the ruined shirt back on again. He does all this while trying not to think about the man in the next room.

Then he's standing by the door, his fingers grazing the handle. His hands are trembling again. Probably the last traces of that adrenalin, he tells himself. Probably not what's dancing on the tip of your tongue, waiting for you to pick the non-existent perfect moment to say it. He supposes that, in that case, now must be as good a time as any, and when he speaks, there's a roughness to his voice that he can't muster the will to disguise.

"I didn't get the BT job, Cal."

His confession is quiet, almost as though he's merely rehearsing it to himself for a full show at a later, indeterminate date. _I didn't get the job, Cal. I'm not going to be around next year, Cal. This is it, Cal._

Cal remains unmoved, his back turned, his shoulders rising and falling with the steady cadence of relaxation. Sleep, most likely. Matt chews on his bottom lip, unable to swallow away the solid stone of an ache in his throat. The backs of his eyes are stinging. He closes the door quietly as he leaves.

 

_Bad love_   
_Kiss me I'm loaded_   
_Something for my troubled mind_

 

So here he is, with his long face, his half drunk pint and his sore body. He realises he hasn't been thinking about the good times for a while. They seem to have escaped him lately.

But there _were_ good times, he does acknowledge that. He wouldn't be sat feeling so heartsore if there weren't, and the fact that things had gone so badly wrong lately just made the ache that much more painful. He closes his eyes and sees Cal in his memories, flushed cheeks and unkempt hair, irrepressible grin, hands and arms and skin and scent, a wicked laugh and those brilliant blue eyes...and then he has to open his eyes because he can't breathe.

He has wondered before if he has ever made Cal feel the way Cal makes him feel, even for a moment. He has wanted to take that wolfish grin in a kiss Cal would never want to break. He wants to be the one that makes Cal shudder, the one Cal clings to because it's too much, wants to be looked at with those striking blue eyes and see more than just lust clouding them over. He wants to be more than just one of many. He wants to be the one Cal cannot do without.

But he isn't. He doesn't think he ever will be.

 _I never fucking promised you fucking anything_ , Cal had said at that house party, eyes aflame with anger. And he was right.

So. Not getting the BT job...it's for the best.

He's the only patron left when they close. The sound of the shutters over the bar rolling halfway down break him out of his dazed, miserable trance, and he sups the last dregs of his pint before moving hastily and apologetically to return his glass. The sudden movement after having been sat still for so long has his aching body protesting quite vehemently, and he finds it least objectionable to have his shredded arm hanging limply at his side.

Now all he can really do is go back to his room.


	3. Chapter 3

Matt lingers outside his door in a suspicious way. He pulls his phone from his pocket and checks it, a pretense in case anybody happens to pass by. What if Cal is still inside? What if he left ages ago? Matt turns his card key over and over in his hand, staring at the door, not knowing what he wants. _Nothing new there, then,_ he thinks dryly.

He shuffles closer, stopping just short of pressing his ear to the door, listening intently for the sound of Cal moving around inside, or even the sound of his snores. He hears neither, nothing at all. The corridor is quiet enough for him to hear his own heartbeat, loud and insistent, beating out a fearful rhythm against his ribs.

He pushes the card key into the slot and waits for the green light. _Snkt_. Turn handle. Into darkness.

_What if he's in here?_

_What if he isn't?_

He is.

Once Matt's eyes adjust, he sees that Cal is on the bed in almost the exact same position as before, curled up on his side in a miserable little ball.

Matt watches him for a while, feeling like there's a phantom hand squeezing his heart so hard, it might burst.

Eventually, he strips down to his boxers, grimacing in discomfort at every little movement, drapes his clothes over his suitcase and, after popping a couple of Ibuprofen from his wash bag, slides gingerly under the sheets. He's conscious of every little creak from the mattress' springs as he tries to make himself comfortable in the bed space next to Cal. Conscious decision or not, he mirrors Cal's position by curling onto his side, careful to lay his still throbbing, still toilet-roll-wrapped elbow atop the covers. He watches the steady rise and fall of Cal's turned back, eyes glassy and sleepless.

 

_Drop out_  
Drop dead hideous  
How low is this brutal love? 

 

Matt does find sleep eventually, because he's woken by the sound of running water. He keeps his eyes shut, not wanting to let the daylight in, and just listens to the whirr and chug of the water pump and the sounds of movement. _You didn't leave, then._

The bathroom door clicks, and Matt cracks open an eye to see Cal emerge wearing the complimentary fleece bathrobe, hair wet and sticking up at all angles. He pads over to Matt's side of the bed, peering, unsure, so Matt rolls onto his back and clears his throat.

"Had a shower," Cal says by way of explanation.

"Yeah, I see."

"Used your toothbrush, as well," Cal adds. "Buy you a new one if you want."

Matt clears his throat again, his voice not quite awake yet, and looks at him warily. "Have you been sick again?"

"No, just..." Cal makes an unpleasant face, gesturing towards his lips. "...my mouth." He goes quiet for a few moments. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not bothered about the toothbrush, Cal," Matt mumbles, scratching his head and frowning at the sore patches of raw skin on his hand. The toilet roll is somehow still clinging onto his arm, so he unwraps it and lets it drop to the floor.

"No, I mean for last night." Cal's eyes drift to the damage to Matt's elbow as he speaks.

Matt offers him a weak smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Yeah, you said as much then."

"I meant it, so I'm saying it again now. I'm sorry."

"I know."

Matt is certain that he has slept, because he feels the grogginess and the fuzziness that accompanies the first minutes of being awake, but he feels in no way rested; He feels worn out, like he's been stretched and pulled so thin, he's been left full of holes. He stretches awkwardly, painfully, and drapes his relatively undamaged arm across his eyes, heaving a deep, slow sigh and listening to the sound of steady rain outside.

"Can I stay?" Cal asks.

Matt peeks out from under his arm, frowning slightly at the other man. Cal is so...dispirited, like he's never seen before. The younger man gestures with a limp arm to the bed. "For a bit. With you."

_Maybe you should be hungover more often,_ Matt thinks, and pats the empty side of the bed.

Cal eases himself under the covers, bathrobe still wrapped around him, Matt still watching him from under his arm. He doesn't lie back, instead tucking one leg under him and angling himself towards the other man, and it's clear now that he's closer that neither the sleep nor the shower have remedied the sickly pallor to his skin. He rubs his forehead and runs his fingers through his damp hair; something is weighing heavily on him. Matt thinks that has never known Cal to struggle to express himself.

"I haven't been good for you," Cal says eventually.

Matt laughs weakly. "I don't know about that…"

"I haven't been good _to_ you, though, have I?"

Matt lifts his arm away from his face. Cal is looking at him intently, earnest concern vivid in those blue eyes, and his fingers are curled into the edge of his bathrobe. Matt doesn't reply.

"I think I knew how you felt about me," Cal continues. "So I'm sorry."

Cal's words roll across Matt's skin like distant thunder, goosebumps left in their wake. He swallows, aware of the way his heartbeat has quickened as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. Cal still seems to want a response, so he just nods, unable to look him in the eye.

Silence blankets the room but for the occasional sound of footsteps and the low rumble of suitcase wheels out in the corridor, the rain against the window. Cal shifts, hitching himself closer until he can put an arm around Matt's waist and allows his hand to settle tentatively at his hip. A peace offering or trying to make a move? It might usually be the latter, but this feels anything but usual; Matt is too worn out to guess anyway. He doesn't react - not outwardly - until Cal rests his temple against Matt's shoulder.

Matt closes his eyes again. Cal's thumb begins to stroke the skin just above the waistband of his boxers. Matt tries not to think too deeply about anything as he lets out a long, slow sigh.

"Look, you say you think you know how I feel, or how I felt, or whatever…" he begins. "But you don't. You don't know the things you do to me. You don't know that when I got back last night and saw you were still here, my heart felt like it was gonna pop. You don't know that with your thumb doing that thing it's doing, I could sit here all day. Just with this. And when you go off to Jorge or Marc or whoever else, I would sit here pining like a lost fucking dog because I am that much of a loser." His voice wavers a little, so he stops. He's not sure he'd have much more to say that was that coherent anyway. He sort of wishes he could see Cal's face, but he doubts he'd have the courage to look at the younger man anyway. Cal's thumb is still stroking his hip, and Matt feels that squeezing sensation around his heart again. "I probably shouldn't have let you stay last night. But you don't know the things you do to me, Cal."

They sit in silence for a while. Matt feels better for having finally spoken, even if he can't gauge Cal's reaction beyond the continued motion of Cal's thumb against his skin. He looks at the blank TV at the end of the bed, but the matt screen, devoid of their reflections, offers him no clues. The steady rain outside is like white noise, a low sound somewhere between a hiss and a roar. It might lull him to sleep if he sits there long enough.

"I never slept with Marc, you know." Cal says.

Matt initially tries not to react but doesn't do a very good job. He cranes his neck to look at the mussed hair atop Cal's head. "Really?"

Cal lifts his head. "Never. There was…" he pauses, looking at Matt intently like he's trying to choose his words carefully. "We messed about, but nothing else. Don't believe everything they fucking tell you."

Matt opens his mouth to speak, because it stirs memories of other riders and other moments of _messing about_ , and if this were any other day he might ask about them. But today he doesn't want to fight, doesn't want to be the passive aggressor, doesn't want to tear open more wounds. There is a sense within him that suddenly things are falling into place, and with it follows the stark question of why he did not see it before. The way Cal behaved last night, the way he's behaving now...

"Why are you telling me now?"

"I don't want you to think any worse of me."

"I don't think badly of you," Matt says softly, with a shake of the head. He tries to catch Cal's eye, but Cal is no longer looking at him, instead focussing on his nails as he picks at them. "So how long have you known?"

Cal doesn't answer immediately, letting a sigh escape him first. But he doesn't play dumb. "A little while. I heard stuff from people, anyway. That you're not gonna be here." His voice grows quieter. "I was waiting to hear it from you, but...I know what it's like."

"Is that what this is, then? Making amends before it..." Matt pauses because he hates the way the words form in his head. "...it all ends."

" _Fuck_ endings," Cal mumbles, a swell of petulance rising in his voice. He rubs at his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "Fuck this ending. I don't want it."

"What ending do you want, then?"

Cal looks up at him sharply. His eyes seem to shine more. "The ending where I've fucking fallen in love with you, and it isn't an ending because it doesn't stop. _We_ don't stop. I don't want to stop because I don't fucking want to be without you."

Matt blinks a few times. _I don't fucking want to be without you._ Maybe his heart finally did pop, because the feeling of tightness deep in his chest is gone, replaced by a hot rush of shock in his veins, like a flash flood, a burst dam. He scans Cal's face and finds nothing to suggest he isn't being serious. There's no amusement dancing in blue eyes; there's concern and fear and stark emotion and _I don't fucking want to be without you._

The hand at his waist tightens its grip, just fractionally. Enough to make him feel like he's being held.

"Is is because of me?" Cal asks, urgency in his tone, cutting through the chasm of stunned silence from Matt. "Are you going because of me?"

Matt swallows. His heartbeat is loud and distracting. "B-because of…"

"Last night. You said it at the do. You said you're sick of me."

"I'm not."

Cal looks him right in the eye, hunting for any hint that his words are insincere. "You're not just saying that 'cos you think I'd get annoyed or anything? Because you sounded pretty fucking sure last night."

"You sounded pretty sure that you'd be glad to see the back of me last night."

"You already know I'm a prick," Cal responds almost instantly. "A prick who wanted to drink and mouth off because you're leaving. It fucking kills me to think you might be going because of me, what I'm like, because I don't wanna lose you. If it's my fault--"

"Cal, it's not." Matt reaches out and grasps Cal's hand in both of his own. He shakes his head, a spike of helplessness in his gut. "It's really not."

Cal seems to relax a little, his expression softening. "Good," he says. His arm doesn't slip from around Matt's waist. "Good."

Matt regards Cal, thinking about how many times he has seen him emotional before. His first podium for Tech3 springs to mind, elated and exuberant and a little teary in parc ferme, the latter even more apparent in the subsequent press conference. If Matt was the poetic type, he might compare the shine of Cal's eyes under that bright lighting to the glittering facets of sapphires. And though there's no elation and certainly no exuberance to Cal now, those sapphires are glittering, he's sure of it.

"I don't know why I put up with you," Matt murmurs.

Cal laughs softly, the corners of his mouth curving up in a familiar, much missed smile. "Because you love me."

It fires through Matt like a lightning bolt. The words are true, he knows they're true, he's known for longer than he'd like to admit even to himself, but to hear them from Cal...

Before now, even as recently as yesterday, Matt might've answered with _more fool me, eh?_ , or something equally pithy. Now, though…

Before it all ends…

He offers a wobbly, helpless smile, and nods.

He twists and loops his arms around Cal, pulling him tight into his chest, burying his face in the crook of Cal's neck. The scent that hits him is a combination of his own shower gel and Cal, just Cal, and all the emotions and memories that stirs. Cal returns the hug just as tightly.

Matt tugs aside the collar of Cal's bathrobe, leaving wet kisses in a trail along sinewy muscle and across warm, clean skin, because he isn't afraid to anymore. He doesn't tell himself he shouldn't, doesn't talk himself out of it, doesn't wait for Cal to take control; he kisses Cal's prickly throat and jawline and finds his mouth and kisses that too. He buries his fingers in Cal's damp hair, and when Cal makes a soft, pleasurable noise in the back of his throat, he thinks about all the times he told himself _stop_ , and presses lightly on Cal's chest until he lies back. 

"When's your flight home?"

Cal smiles somewhat sheepishly. "In about ten minutes, I think."

Mat stills. "Oh." He's about to move as if to allow Cal to sit back up, as though Cal would have any chance of making the airport in time, but Cal doesn't let that happen.

"I'm staying. I'm gonna stay for as long as I fucking want."

"Oh yeah, how long's that…?" Matt raised an eyebrow, pre-emptively trying to think of a comeback to the expected joke about the length of Cal's cock. Instead he receives a heart-stopping smile.

"As long as you want me."

Matt is captivated, more so than he ever has been before, in no small part because the fears of his own feelings have been stripped away. So he cups Cal's face, thumb brushing his cheekbone, and speaks quietly. "I'll always want you."

He meets Cal's lips again, unused to his own outward honesty and finding comfort in the familiarity of a kiss, one that Cal opens to without hesitation. He yields to the rhythm Matt sets, humming into his mouth, and when Matt breaks away, Cal isn't keen to let him go. "Mmm, keep kissing me like that…"

Much as he's enjoying it, Matt has other plans. He moves, squirming his way out from under the covers to clamber on top of Cal, one hand tugging the cord of his bathrobe open. Desire unfurls within him, and he wants Cal naked beneath him, naked _for_ him, sweeping open his robe and running his hands over his body. He feels the strength in Cal's thighs as they clasp his own.

He kisses a slow arc across Cal's chest, his hands moving lower, coasting over his stomach and hips, thumbs rubbing the ridge between his thighs and groin. He hears and feels Cal exhale with a hum, callused hand rounding the back of his head and stroking through silvery hair. It's been so long since he's had Cal like this - so long since he's had Cal _at all_ \- that the desire to savour every moment, every touch, every twitch, every soft gasp, every gentle moan, takes him over. He kisses and caresses, running his hands over a body he's missed so, so badly, taking in a unique scent he was beginning to forget.


	4. Chapter 4

Matt reaches down between them to the space between Cal's legs, where the increase in body heat makes his stomach clench with want. His hand closes gently around Cal's balls, massaging them with his palm while his fingertips rub the smooth skin behind them. He shifts back up for a kiss while his hand remains occupied, one that demonstrates a hunger that his other easy movements disguise; he swallows Cal's moans and wants more of them.

"I'd tell you I'd forgotten how good you sounded," Matt says, his voice muffled against Cal's mouth, revelling in the buck and jerk of Cal's hips, feeling a frisson of lust shiver through him whenever Cal's cock brushes against his wrist. "But some nights it's all I could think about."

Squirming a little beneath him, Cal grips his shoulder, thumb brushing his neck, letting himself be kissed like it's their last night on Earth. He groans more loudly, and Matt likes to think it's for his benefit; he lets the kiss go on and on, moving to kiss the corner of Cal's mouth, his stubbled cheek, the mole on his jaw when he wants those full moans to echo even louder.

"Aren't you worried about beard burn?" Cal asks.

"Don't care," Matt replies shortly, roughly, returning to Cal's mouth for a demonstratively passionate kiss, feeling a swell of desire when Cal's thighs clench around his. He's smiling when he breaks away, hand still slowly working Cal's balls, finding those intense blue eyes bright with lust.

Holding his gaze, Cal reaches down towards his swelling cock but Matt stops him, grasping his hand and pressing it back into the mattress, fingers meshing together.

"Slow build," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the pulse point beneath Cal's jaw for long enough to feel it throb against his lips.

"Fucking slow build!" Cal exclaims, no small amount of exasperation in his voice. His hand pushes into Matt's hair and tightens its grip just a little.

Matt pulls back to regard the flustered man beneath him. "I know you like to fuck and run, but don't tell me you've never done it like this."

"Yeah, yeah, it's just…" Cal pauses to breathe, looking like he needs someone to rake his scattered thoughts back together so he can become coherent. "...not my preference."

"Is it too much?"

Cal nods, trying to focus starry eyes on him. Matt bites his bottom lip. He remembers wondering in the past how Cal might react to this, to a loss of control, a slower pace. Not his preference, he says.

"Good," Matt murmurs. "Trust me."

Cal wrinkles his nose in apparent distaste, but he's smiling in that inimitable Cal way. "You just wanna torture me."

"Maybe a little bit…" Matt returns the smile. He kisses Cal's neck, pleased when he tips his head back to allow him better access. "I want it to be too much," he says in a soft, low voice against Cal's skin, moving down to his collarbone and across to the hollow of his throat. "I want to be too much for you."

Cal groans and swears under his breath, and Matt isn't completely sure if it's a positive reaction or not, but he enjoys the way Cal squeezes his hand so tightly. He laps at that dip between Cal's collarbones, tongue flat and broad and tasting just the faintest tang of sweat. 

He looks down between them to adjust his position, his body not quite distracted enough to let him forget how damn sore he is after last night, and lets his eyes linger on the full hardness of Cal's erection, flushed with colour and bobbing gently as he moves. His own cock twitches, similarly neglected and hidden away in his boxer shorts.

Cal's free hand caresses his back, slipping lower to squeeze his asscheek and, taking advantage of Matt's preoccupation, uses that leverage to lift his hips and grind up against him with a triumphant moan. Matt echoes that moan before it dissolves into a chuckle, the sudden jolt of stimulation not unpleasant; he has to fight the urge to abandon his plan to savour things and rut against Cal until he begs to be fucked.

"I'm gonna tie your wrists to the headboard in a minute," he says archly.

"Fucking pervert," Cal chuckles in the back of his throat, a spark of definite interest amongst the arousal in his eyes. "One step at a time, yeah?" He grunts and grinds against him again, teeth set into his bottom lip; he might be teasing Matt, or it might be his own special way of begging, but Matt finds himself unable to concentrate on deciding which it is.

"You can take my boxers off, if you like…" he purrs as seductively as he can, nipping at Cal's earlobe as he speaks; the words are barely out of his mouth when Cal grabs a clumsy fistful of his shorts.

" _I wanna tear them off with my teeth,_ " Cal growls, and it would sound like a threat were it not for his appropriately toothy grin. He yanks Matt's boxers down with little concern for seduction; Matt feels his stomach flip from his sudden exposure and the raw lust in Cal's voice. It strips away a good chunk of his willpower, and he fidgets on his knees until he's helped Cal in his quest to throw the unwanted garment onto the floor.

It's at that point that sudden realisation smacks Matt around the head and he freezes. Dread fills his voice. "Oh heck, tell me you brought a condom with you."

Cal's eyes go as wide as saucers. Flying ones. "You are fucking joking me! You can't just fucking tease me like this without fucking--" he digs his heels into the mattress, a stream of curses pouring forth when coherency leaves him in a fit of pique.

Matt sits up, pushing his hand through his hair, trying to think where the hell he could buy condoms at this time in the morning, and quickly. Then-- "Oh hang on, hang on, I think--" he untangles himself from Cal and scrambles backwards off the bed with no grace whatsoever. "Don't touch," he says, pointing to Cal's neglected erection, and Cal swears at him, fisting his hands into the pillow beneath his head and arching off the bed in frustration. Matt's then in the bathroom and digging into his wash bag, muttering _you beauty_ when his fingers brush the square of foil he'd been sure he'd left in there months back, and he's swiftly back on the bed, entangling himself in his lover again like he can't bear to be away from him for more than a few seconds. He kisses Cal with fierce, possessive passion, his self control slipping ever further away.

Matt licks the tips of two fingers, then sucks on them, waiting while Cal hitches up a leg and spread it out wide so he has better access. Rubbing those slick fingertips over the tight ring of muscle, he feels it twitch under his touch. Cal hooks his arm under his knee and pulls his leg up higher, wetting his lips and groaning when Matt's fingers slide into him good and slow, right to the knuckle. Matt shifts a little and brings his focus to Cal's face, watching the changes in his expression, curling his fingers and delighting in the way Cal pants and arches, even moreso when he begins to slowly fingerfuck him.

"Don't need more," Cal says shortly when Matt is about to add a third finger, shaking his head, urgency radiating from him. He squirms and looks down between them, then across to the square of foil slowly being lost in amongst rumpled covers. "Don't need more," he repeats. Matt expects him to reach across and take the condom himself, tearing it open with his teeth as he's often done before, but he doesn't. He stares up at Matt, eyes like headlights on high beam, and twists his hand so tightly in the pillowcase that Matt is sure he can hear the seam popping under the strain. Matt bends to kiss him and Cal rises onto his elbows to meet him halfway, ferocious and hungry, like the phenomenal kiss in that shadowy Czech bus shelter all that time ago that seized Matt and swallowed him whole. Cal's growling as the movement causes Matt's fingers to shift inside him, and his hips buck involuntarily, which only makes him growl more and Matt laugh into his mouth. Cal breaks the passionate kiss and lets his head roll back on his shoulders, a breathless, exasperated laugh bursting from him. "Oh, fucking come on--!"

Matt's head drops and he laughs against Cal's collarbone, smearing wet kisses along its length while he adjusts his position to kneel directly between Cal's legs, groping blindly across for the condom packet. He steals a glance down between them, at the gentle ridges and muscular curves of Cal's body, the dark, flushed skin of his erection; the heat and the lust of it all roar through him.

"I don't think I've ever wanted you as much as I do right now," he mumbles into Cal's skin.

"Well I'm not fucking stopping you, dickhead!"

Matt laughs again, enough to make the corners of his eyes crinkle. He deftly rips the foil open and pulls the condom free with one hand (it's not a party trick exactly, but not something he's ashamed of either). He takes a moment to sit back while he puts it on, hearing the hiss of fabric when Cal draws his knees up, feet flat on the bed, hearing his laboured breathing and feeling an impatient bordering on desperate gaze boring into him. Everything, every single thing about right now, even the insults, is turning him on.

"How d'you want me then, eh?" Cal asks, voice rough and quiet, full of eager anticipation, of wicked suggestion and searing promise. Matt has to take a longer moment to look at him this time, just look to take in the devastatingly attractive sight of Cal, cock hard, legs open, reclining for him. For _him_. Cal's hands caress Matt's thighs as they regard one another, an almost tangible electricity in the air.

"On your back," Matt responds eventually with a smile, taking Cal by his hips and abruptly pulling him closer so the small of Cal's back rests atop his spread thighs. _Presented_. "Like this. And begging me for it."

A grin splits Cal's face and he laughs, his eagerness undiminished. "Fucking hell, Matthew." He flexes his legs, calves rubbing against Matt's waist in slightly impatient encouragement, then lifts them to rest his ankles on Matt's shoulders. "Sounds good to me…"

Matt takes hold of his sheathed cock and gives it a few brief strokes, the jolts of pleasure that fire through him an indication that Cal isn't the only impatient one here, and grips Cal's thigh with his other hand, shifting forward to rub the blunt head of his cock against his hole. Cal's grin fades and he makes a noise in the back of his throat at the teasing touch, his breathing growing more laboured just from the anticipation. Matt bites his bottom lip, soft little moans escaping him, and he kisses the inside of Cal's calf when the man beneath him begins to arch and moan. Still he just teases.

Cal's hands move under himself to pull his own cheeks apart, giving better access, wanting a more stimulating touch. Matt's cockhead rubs up and down his crack, over such sensitive skin, over and over… His fingernails bite into his fleshy skin and he grits his teeth. "Matt--"

It almost, _almost_ sounds like Cal is about to beg, like he might bypass the swearing for once and actually plead for it, but Matt never finds out because he can't wait anymore, either. He pushes into Cal with a groan.

" _Ohhh,_ fucking hell…" Cal presses his head back into the pillow, sounding like he's never wanted anything more in his life. Matt sees his thighs flex, feels his heels press down into his shoulder muscles, asking for more even when Matt is fully inside him.

Matt grips hold of Cal's muscular thighs, high up towards his hips, and settles into a rhythm of slow, deep thrusts. Cal stays right where he wants him, and he can't help but set his nails into Cal's flesh as his focus narrows to the sight of his cock burying into that tight, clenching hole. The way Cal's cock lolls back, smooth head brushing his stomach.

Cal is already almost gone, by the looks of him; his eyes closed, brow furrowed, he grips the headboard, forearm muscles bulging, veins popping as he makes the most incredible array of loud noises, the like of which Matt's never heard before. Matt watches his head rock from side to side, the sinews in his neck flexing, his Adam's apple bobbing when he swallows. He only pauses in his moans to gulp in air, and swear, and say Matt's name.

Matt leans forward, carefully so as not to slip out, and plants his hands flat on the bed either side of Cal's heaving chest, and Cal allows his legs to descend to wrap around his waist in kind. Once comfortable, his hips begin rocking, a little faster than before, the sharper angle making Cal writhe like a man possessed beneath him. "Oh, fuck me, yeah," he pants, pornographic, teeth gritted, and Matt manages a smile as he aims his thrusts with practiced precision. "Oh, fucking fuck me…"

"Go on then, touch yourself." Matt says, similarly out of breath. He glances down at his splayed hands with a smirk. "I'd do it myself, but...bit busy."

Cal slides his hand down his stomach without needing a second invitation. His chest swells with a sudden, sharp intake of breath at his own touch, like he's about to burst, and he releases it with a hushed groan.

"Slowly," Matt says softly, revelling in Cal's reaction. "Like this." He puts more roll into his hips, demonstrating the rhythm he wants.

Despite Cal's pleasure addled state, he still manages to roll his eyes at the instruction, spluttering in wordless exasperation. He does, however, do as he's bid, following Matt's rhythm as closely as he can. Soon he prises his other hand from the headboard to throw his arm across his own open mouth to muffle a flood of louder sounds - and frankly it's a wonder they haven't had a call from reception about the noise already, or at least a few thumps on the adjoining wall. Cal's face flushes a deeper pink and Matt feels a breathless laugh bubble up inside him.

"You look amazing," he says raggedly, feeling the slow, burning swell of pleasure building in his gut. "You sound it as well!"

No insult or curse is fired back at him; in fact it appears Cal is far enough gone that he didn't hear. Groans sobbing from him with every hastened breath, he's able to give himself only a few more steady strokes before he stops, forefinger and thumb squeezing the head of his cock, sticky and glistening with precome, He moans desperately, frustratedly into the back of his hand, clenched into a fist.

"Fucking hell, Matt, please--" he blurts out suddenly, hand moving away from his mouth to fist into his own hair.

Matt maintains his rhythm, fingers leaving bruises in Cal's thighs. "Yeah?"

"Please-- I need to--" Cal begs incoherently. "I can't handle it, Matt, please-- Let me--"

There's a genuine flicker of distress in Cal's voice, a tiny candle in amongst a blaze of dizzied arousal, but it's enough to reign in Matt's desire to keep pushing him. He stops to shift his position and reduce the strain on his arms, spreading his legs wider despite the already very vocal protests of his muscles to give longer, deeper thrusts, faster and faster still, and he glances down to watch Cal's hand wrap back around his cock and move with desperate haste.

Cal comes with a strident cry, arching off the bed, free hand flying out to grip the edge of the mattress. Matt watches his face contort, the sinews in his neck straining while he cries out, so mesmerised by the total abandonment of control that his own orgasm almost sneaks up on him; there's a sudden rush of heat in his stomach while he's fucking Cal through his orgasm and he just has time to grip Cal's hip to steady them both before he's shuddering, with full-throated moans spilling from him.

He sags almost before he's finished, suddenly, hopelessly exhausted, and sinks forwards onto his elbows, smearing kisses across Cal's heaving, sweat slick chest. He eases out before the thought of the separation becomes too acute, and moves to roll limply onto his back, the pain from his various bumps and bruises bleeding back into his consciousness. Suddenly, Cal's arms encircle him tightly. " _Don't,_ " Cal says, urgent and breathless, not demanding but pleading, face buried in the crook of Matt's neck. "Don't," he says again, arms around his lover, holding him there. Not letting him go. Matt's heart might have missed a beat or two.

He feels Cal breathing deeply against his chest, feels lift his head to find Matt's mouth for several swift, wet kisses, as though he can't kiss him quickly enough. "Fucking hell," he whispers between them. "Fucking hell." Matt resists the urge within him to press Cal on how he feels; it'd be a fairly silly question when the younger man is clearly, demonstratively overwhelmed. Really, Matt just wants to know if Cal is _okay_.

Cal speaks when he's ready, murmuring almost introspectively, still regaining his breath. "I can't do that every time," His face is still flushed, his eyes wide and bright and so, so blue as he intently studies a random spot on Matt's chest. He shakes his head. "I can't. It's too much."

At first, Matt merely nods, digesting Cal's reaction, studying him. "...But you would do it again?"

Cal doesn't answer. He doesn't make eye contact with Matt either, and that makes concern pinch at his gut. Maybe he judged it wrong. Maybe he did push it too far. Shit.

Cal threads his fingers through Matt's hair and pulls him down for another kiss, slower and sweeter than before. Then he meets Matt's gaze and nods, briefly. "For you."

"Cal, if you don't enjoy it--"

"No, no, it's not that," Cal interrupts with a fleeting frown. "I _want_ to do it for you. I want you to make me feel like that." He takes a breath and lets it out slowly, a self-conscious smile finally beginning to creep onto his face. "Just not every time."

Relief sweeps through Matt, his stomach unclenching, and he relaxes. Cal's arms are still around him and he still doesn't seem particularly keen to let him go, so he bends his head to kiss along his lover's jawline.

"You not afraid I'll squash you?" Matt teases gently. "With all that weight you keep telling me I've put on?"

Cal's smile broadens into a grin, and he tightens his arms around Matt until the breath is forced from his lungs in a strained grunt. "I'll pretend it's my weight training."

 

Matt only realises that he fell asleep when he wakes; groggier than the last time, but with the warm, wonderful weight of Cal draped over him, head against his chest. He reaches out towards the bedside table for his phone, keen not to disturb the younger man, but unfortunately even at full stretch he can only brush it uselessly with his fingertips.

"M'awake," Cal then mumbles, eyes remaining closed. He nuzzles against Matt's chest while he apologises.

"Gotta check out in an hour," Matt says once Cal has pushed himself up on one elbow and he finally gets his phone in his hand.

"That's ages," Cal responds, running a splayed hand over Matt's chest. "How long does it take you to do your hair these days?" He smiles against Matt's skin, kissing his way down the inside of his arm, the look in his eye making his intentions crystal clear.

Matt glances around the room. It's not like he has clothes strewn around the place to pack away. Not like he can't have a two minute shower to freshen up. He puts his phone back on the bedside table.

The hand exploring Matt's chest runs down his body, following the contours of bone and flesh, and Matt tries not to wince when his not particularly light touch passes over a sizeable sore spot on his hip. He's quite sure Cal's smile widens fractionally at that, but he doesn't have the chance to really think about it because that descending hand slips between his legs. He presses his head back into the pillow, the touch delivering an instant jolt of pleasure that blows away any remaining cobwebs of sleep. Cal chuckles and squirms backwards under the covers.

Matt is fully hard in a shockingly small amount of time, hand buried in Cal's hair while his stomach is drizzled with kisses, mesmeric blue eyes looking right up at him, and it's almost too intimate. Cal works his cock slowly, thumb rubbing circles over the slit, and all the while Cal stares up at him, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Matt is almost thankful when the pleasure becomes too much and he arches, eyes flickering shut, biting down on his bottom lip.

With his eyes closed, the focus on Cal's touch becomes sharper; the scratch of his stubble and wet, warm smear of his mouth together, tracking beneath his belly button and briefly down into his hair, where he hears Cal inhale and give a low groan. Matt licks his lips, expecting the swipe and caress of a wicked, knowledgeable tongue along his length, but it doesn't come.

Instead, Cal's teeth set into the flesh at his hip, a very particular spot; that patch of bruising from his spill the previous night, a discoloured target that Cal finds and focuses on. Matt hisses, arches, instinctively tries to shrink away from the jolt of pain. " _Nnn_ \--" he doesn't get as far as no, because it slips into his bloodstream and blends with everything else, and he sags, panting as Cal sucks and bites, that hand still jerking him off until he's moaning breathlessly and squirming needily. Cal only releases his grip on Matt's hip to press his tongue against the bruising, pressing and rubbing in circles matching the motion of his thumb, slick from beads of precome. Matt has both hands in Cal's hair, his fingers reflexively tightening with every flex of Cal's jaw, every time he sucks hard on the bruised skin; they don't force Cal away, they hold him there. It hurts, of course it hurts, it makes him grit his teeth and grunt and it all feels so fucking good and then suddenly he is _gone_.

He damn near shouts when he comes, he realises afterwards; a sudden release of noise before his hips shudder and spasm. Cal's hand doesn't stop or slow down until he has relaxed, boneless and gasping for breath.

Cal pushes the bedcovers back off his head. "Is that what I looked like before?" he asks, amusement and interest lending a certain sparkle to his eyes. "When you were fucking me?"

Matt blinks several times, not quite having arrived back on this planet yet. "I-I dunno," he says, his coherency not helped by the beguiling smile on Cal's face. Or the way his hair has been so gloriously mussed by his movements under the covers. Or the sparkle in those blue eyes. He laughs breathlessly and pulls a pillow over his reddening face. Cal's assertion that his apparently blissed out expression was "going in the wank bank" only serves to deepen his blushes, and he sputters a muffled laugh.

Once the embarrassment has dimmed somewhat, Matt cranes his neck to inspect his hip, brushing his thumb over the reddish marks decorating the area around his impressive bruise. "Blimey, you were like a dog with a bone," he says, so preoccupied that he doesn't think of the implications of his words. Cal's laugh is suitably filthy.

"You've given me _lots_ of fucking bones, you have," he purrs, emerging further from beneath the bedcovers, heavy cock sliding against Matt's inner thigh, which makes the older man's stomach swoop like the first drop on a huge rollercoaster. He stares up at Cal, eyes a little wide, brain momentarily short circuiting when he pulls the younger man down for a kiss and feels the weight and press of him between his legs. But today has been so revelatory and exhausting already - and it's barely even half nine - that the suggestion of having Cal take care of his solid erection by fucking him until he has trouble standing should probably be saved for another day…

The kiss escalates from sweet into hungry, Cal growling into it, his hips bucking in response to the way his neglected cock rubs against Matt's stomach. Matt's focus narrows to that sensation, the smooth head painting precome across his skin, and he grips Cal's muscular shoulder while he reaches down between them and wraps his hand around Cal's swollen cock, need of a different kind suddenly lancing through him. He jerks Cal off with such urgency that Cal breaks the kiss to suck in air, a gasp that leaves him in a strained moan. Matt lifts his head to nip at Cal's lips.

"Go on," he pants against his lover's mouth, urging him on, hand working faster. Cal goes rigid in no time at all, Matt's nose bumping against his as he shudders through his orgasm, and Matt's cock twitches, a weak spurt of pleasure shooting through him at the hot, wet spatter across his stomach. When he's spent, Cal swears and laughs breathlessly, forehead pressed against Matt's. Matt closes his eyes, focussing on Cal's presence and body heat surrounding him, and how good it feels. He wants to wrap himself up in it, hibernate in it. 

"I didn't want you going off to take care of that yourself," Matt murmurs quite seriously when Cal lifts his head. "I wanted it." He lifts his gaze but it quickly skitters away, down Cal's chest, feeling heat in his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Cal's smile broaden.

"Good." Cal says, softly and simply. After a long moment of contented silence, he glances down between them at the mess. "Can I clean you up...?"

It's clearly a rhetorical question, because Cal is already disappearing back under the covers, and then Matt feels the hot, wet swipes of his tongue over his stomach. His breath hitches at the sensation alone, but he wants a little more; he throws back the cover to watch his lover lapping up the sticky mess decorating his skin. Cal grins when he's exposed, not slowing his progress for a moment, looking up at Matt while he licks him clean. Matt bites his bottom lip and remains quiet, stroking Cal's hair as he busies himself.

The need to check the time again scratches at the corner of Matt's mind, and he reaches across to his phone while Cal sits back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Fifteen minutes, crikey," he murmurs, wincing slightly when he forgets about his wounds and pushes himself up on his elbows. Cal hasn't moved any further.

"I just wanna stay here with you," he says.

"We should probably work out what we're gonna say when the cleaning lady walks in, then," Matt says wryly, feeling a sharp pang in his chest when Cal visibly deflates, like he'd been hoping for some miracle to extend their time together. The word _last_ thuds heavily into his head, and though he sternly asserts to himself that it is _not_ , not in this case, not after everything they've been through in the last twelve or so hours, it still causes his smile to fade. He sits up fully and pulls Cal against him, kissing him deeply.

 

When Cal is reluctantly getting dressed a short while later, he smoothes the creases in his shirt and pauses. He pulls his key card from its buttoned top pocket with a small show of sheepishness. Matt suspects he knew it was there the whole time.

 

"Look, I'm getting a place in Tuscany, you need to come visit," Cal says once he's standing by the door. "I need you to come visit."

Matt nods, his smile broadening at Cal's meaningful addendum. "Summer break, I s'pose. I'll see you before that, hopefully."

"Yeah!" Cal exclaims, wide eyed, looking as though he hadn't considered the thought of that not happening. "Fucking hell, you'd better." His shoulders sink slightly, like it's hitting him all over again.

There's a part of Matt that doesn't want to have the goodbye kiss. It's not 'see you next season', it's 'see you at some point, who knows when', and he doesn't want this achingly sad doorstep farewell to be the thing he remembers, the thing he clings onto until next time, _who knows when_. But it's only a part of him, and when Cal hugs him tightly enough to crush all the air from his lungs, he returns the embrace just as fiercely. He realises when Cal meets his mouth that he couldn't have done without a kiss goodbye.

Then he's alone in a room quiet but for that persistent hiss of rain.

He enters the bathroom with a shade of reluctance, not truly wanting to wash Cal off him, but needing to not stink if he's going to be going out in public. His head is fuzzy and his heart already aches from Cal's absence, so maybe a clarifying shower would be the best thing for him. He hesitates once inside, leaning back out to peer at the closed door and wondering if Cal might come back, might sneak into the bathroom and use all his hot water like before. He gives it a minute, but the door stays closed. So he carries on.

He only has time for a brief shower, enough to rinse himself and carefully clean his shredded elbow again, but he does feel better for it once he scoots open the curtain. Mostly better, at least; the human brain can be a pesky thing, and his has allowed him only a few minutes of peace before whispers of insecurity and doubt slip through his mind like noxious tendrils of smoke. _Maybe he was just caught up in the moment. Lip service. Only wanting something when he might be about to lose it. Maybe._

He sweeps his damp hair away from his forehead and looks in the mirror to check out how severe his beard burn is - something he _hasn't_ missed, at all - and he's about to wipe away the condensation when he notices that it has collected on the surface in an unusual way, one that suggests something's been written there recently. He squints and angles his head but can't quite make it out so, carefully, he leans over the sink and retraces the lines with his index finger.

I DON'T KNOW IF I LOVE YOU  
BUT I WANT TO

SORRY FOR BEING A PRICK CC x

Matt has to remind himself to breathe, reading the words over and over again. Then he has to remind himself he really hasn't got time to stand here staring at smudges on a mirror, however slack-jawed and hopelessly, head-over-heels in love he is. He hurries into the bedroom to get his phone, almost dropping it in his clumsy haste, fumbling with it in the bathroom and trying to stand in the right place where the words on the mirror are easily readable, because he wants them photographed. He wants them with him wherever he's going to be next year, because if he can't have Cal near him, he can have his words. Words that he would've written early that morning when Matt was still sleeping, when he thought Matt was leaving the paddock to get away from him, when he thought Matt hated him. He might've even written it as a goodbye note. It meant something entirely different now. _But I want to_ , Matt hears Cal's voice in his head. _I want to._

As he's throwing on some clothes and slicking some product into his nowhere-near-dry hair, he considers sending Cal that photo with the caption _You're a prick and I fucking love you_ , and smiles to himself about it. He's still smiling even when the cleaner opens the door to find him rooting around under the duvet at the foot of the bed for the underwear he abandoned at some point during the morning...


	5. Epilogue

_2014._

Matt can't decide if his flight took forever or no time at all, but he's suddenly, finally touching down in Firenze. He's been here countless times before, but he's not heading to Mugello or Misano this time. The wait for his suitcase _does_ feel like eons, even giving himself a solid five minutes to tidy up and freshen his breath in the bathroom, and once he's out into the international arrivals hall, his eyes are scanning the scattered waiting people like he's trying to comprehensively identify the entire Moto3 running order on the first lap of a race. He doesn't see anyone he recognises.

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket. It's a brief text message. _Car park._ He's walking at a pace before he's even reached the second word, and peering meerkat-like over rows and rows of cars as soon as he's outside. "Car park" is so vague. _Too_ vague for him; he feels like he's going to squirm out of his skin with nervous anticipation. _Car park. Prick._

His case comes off the edge of a kerb at an awkward angle and it topples unceremoniously onto its side, jerking him to a halt. Pausing in his search while he tuts under his breath and wrestles it back onto its wheels, his sunglasses slip out of the collar of his shirt and clatter to the tarmac at his feet. As he's picking them back up with another, louder tut, he hears someone chuckling, presumably at his expense. He looks up, then around. And smiles.

There's a man in a black Alpinestars t-shirt and tidy-ish jeans sauntering towards him from an open-booted coupé a few cars away, mesmerising eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses and a bristly face split by a wide, wolfish grin.

"Alright, Matthew."


End file.
